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Predicament

I am
not the
Haley’s comet, you know.
Though I wish
I were.
What control it has
over its trajectory;
comes and goes
at
a fixed time
only.

And so are
almost all the
celestial bodies;
attuned to
a timing of their own;
unlike me.


I am,
instead,
a gun of
random asteroids,
or debris;
frivolous objects
zipping
into the dark.

They are breakable
to the
tiniest of particles,
as if stubborn
to die,
fighting mortality;
like me.



You tell me:
does this
explain
my predicament?
-

 2019

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